


Through to the Rift

by night_reveals



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Chases, Dark, Dubious Consent, Ephebophilia, Implied Torture, Implied Underage, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Manipulation, Murder, Post Season/Series 02, Predator/Prey, Sexual Violence, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:46:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/night_reveals/pseuds/night_reveals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter infiltrates Stiles' dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through to the Rift

**Author's Note:**

> My eternal thanks to theragnarokd and themoltenmoon for making time to look this over.
> 
> Loosely based on a prompt from anon: "Peter infiltrates Stiles' dreams to seduce. Aware he's dreaming, Stiles turns out to be a kinky top." It's fair to say that this doesn't exactly fill the prompt.
> 
> So as to not mislabel this story I have chosen **Not to Use Archive Warnings** . Therefore, please take an extra second to read carefully over the content notes above before engaging the text. If you have a specific question, please see [On Content Notes](http://night-reveals.dreamwidth.org/19536.html).

   

Stiles' dreams were nothing like Peter envisioned. 

Laid out before Peter, the outside of them pulsed much as a heart did. When Peter pushed against them they froze, turning to smooth, twisting glass, and he traced over their ridges and dips until he found the tiniest crack. It had taken months to learn this art, but it would be worth it if even half of his plans came to fruition. 

Cloaking his presence as well as he could, Peter peered into Stiles’ nighttime subconscious.

Loud, colorful, vibrant — Peter had been ready for turquoise-gold trees and apples that tasted like chocolate chip cookies, for cities lit by glowing worms and songs that layered over the top of each other until you couldn't tell one beat from the next. He'd expected Stiles' dreams to be as random as the boy himself, quicksilver beautiful and fresh. 

Most of all, Peter had expected _sex_. 

At least he hadn't been completely wrong.

He watched as Stiles writhed on his own narrow bed — tragically unimaginative, Peter tutted to himself — and tugged on his own cock. After so many months Stiles looked considerably older than Peter remembered, his legs more defined, the last vestiges of baby fat giving way to tendon and muscle. The dark couldn’t hide the long rips of scar tissue running up Stiles’ torso, either. 

Letting his body gain a more corporeal form at the edges of the dream, Peter contemplated the new lines of Stiles’ body. He didn’t know how he felt about that, the boy he remembered turned used and scarred. Until Peter knew for certain, he didn’t want to touch — not himself, not Stiles. Not yet.

On the bed Stiles spread his legs, knees digging into the fabric as he exposed himself to the empty room. 

Peter remembered this rhythm, the way Stiles jerk-tug-twisted his own cock, abrading his skin like he wanted it to hurt but didn’t know how to ask. Not that he would have to ask, when Peter took him.

Dark spots grew on the pale green pillow sheet as Stiles smashed his face into it, spit leaking from his mouth. His rutting shook the frame, knocking wood against the plaster wall. The moans filling the room went wet and sloppy, Stiles snuffling, quick breaths in-out-in. 

Huffing when he went to his shoulders, he slipped a second hand between his legs, curling up on the bed. Distress writ over his face as he nudged at his little hole, lips red, teeth bared. To get both hands between his legs he had to spread slut-wide, line of his back like a whip in the night.

Whining filled the room, Stiles humping his hand and pushing awkwardly at his hole, unable to get his dry finger inside.

Spit filled Peter's mouth, jaws aching and fingers tingling. It was all in his mind and it didn't matter — it felt real.

An actual sob broke the patterned slap of skin and whimpers. Peter pressed closer to Stiles' mind, not wanting to miss anything. 

"Please, Derek, ple —" The pretty gasps quietly echoed in the room.

Peter couldn't help rolling his eyes. Ah, Stiles wanted to be dicked by the brooding bad boy that his nephew pretended to be. What a cliche. 

All of possibility spread out before him and Stiles chose this? To recreate a scene that Peter knew for a fact the boy acted out every other night?

Dismay welled in Peter, but it wasn't enough to tear him from the flash of Stiles' limbs in the moonlit room. Stiles finally used his brain and sucked on two fingers, the spit on them glistening before they disappeared into his hole, just enough lubrication for him to slip inside himself. Despite his annoyance at the pure banality of it all, Peter ran his hand over his pants, belatedly realizing that he should get undressed. 

As soon as he'd thought it, his clothes disappeared.

Oblivious, Stiles continued his show, leg muscles tensing and the curve of his lower back beading with sweat as the minutes dragged on. Peter watched Stiles become more and more frustrated, only able to get two fingers into himself at the awkward angle he had. 

Swearing, Stiles slipped his fingers from himself and spit on them again, reaching back between his legs and flopping his head down to his bed again. He circled his hole with wet fingers, pushing one then two inside with an angry huff. 

This was almost perfect, exactly what Peter had hoped for; he wanted to take Stiles in the boy's own dreams, leave him confused at his thoughts. Months ago Peter had noticed a seed in Stiles, and these dreams were to be the water that coaxed it into bloom. Yet the air was, if possible, too perfect. If Peter had wanted a boy who'd flash belly and throat from the beginning, he'd have picked some little thing off the streets. 

Frown on his face, Peter slipped from the Stiles’ mind as easily as he'd found it. Discontent.

## 

Peter hadn't know if 'boy' remained the right word until he came up behind Stiles, put a finger at the sweet skin of his neck. A jar of olives shattered on the linoleum and Stiles whirled to face him in the overly bright aisles.

"You," Stiles choked out, fingers trembling in anger or fear, cheeks white.

"Eloquent as always, I see." Peter cocked his head. Something was strange. "Your heartbeat." It _thunk-thunk-thunked_ , only a little elevated, so different from the terrified patter he remembered.

"Different medication," said Stiles, tongue coming out to lick dry lips.

"Glad to see you're being taken care of," Peter said. He rubbed a thumb over the pink slash of a mouth in front of him.

Peter was gone before he could hear any stuttered-out reply.

The dying flame in his chest rekindled.

Still a boy, then.

##

The next night Peter stalked Stiles' dreams. It opened to chaos and rushing green.

Fear permeated the scene, thick and hot enough that it coiled out from a crack in Stiles’ soul, its scent pricking at Peter's innate senses. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Stiles was muttering, each word delivered as his bare feet struck the loamy earth below, a drumbeat of movement and noise. Branches tore at his face and bare arms, the bloody lines of nature's warning. He whipped his head back to glance behind himself. 

Peter's canines slid out, lengthening further with every one of Stiles' terrified breaths. 

"Scott!" Stiles screamed, eyes wild with something that Peter had seen only once on him, when the beautiful Lydia Martin had been laid out bleeding between them: desperation.

It was a _wonderful_ look for him.

The sound of nearby howls rocked the dream, shooting through Peter like hot metal spikes. 

A new urgency entered Stiles' sprint. Clumps of dirt flew up behind him, the forest's jackrabbits and squirrels fleeing before his panicked movements. 

"Scott!" he yelled out. "Where are you?"

A few hundred feet behind Stiles a low growling started, the snap of dry twigs and the incensed cawing of birds following. 

They were coming and Peter would have to act quickly, dream or no. He pried Stiles’ mind open more fully for the first time, readying.

"Derek," Stiles said, at first quiet and then screaming, "Derek, Scott, you guys!" He tripped on a branch and went down hard, face smashing into mud, dead sycamore leaves sticking to his front as he scrambled to his feet.

A triumphant howl pierced the air, and Peter breathed in deep, concentrated the way he'd taught himself — then slipped in.

His howl joined the pack's. 

Casual wishing was enough to wipe out the others, each wolf dissipating into the forest gloom after Peter laid eyes on them. The dream warped, swallowing the shadows of the alphas back down.

Alone and strong his howl shook the leaves, the stench of boy a potent trail.

The trees that blocked Stiles' way bent for Peter, nature recognizing one of its own even in the corners of the subconscious. It was laughably easy to catch up. Growls and snarls kept Stiles scared, breath labored and too short, and Peter chased him to the edge of a clearing.

He leapt and his boy crumpled, knees hitting the dirt, smell of decaying plant and new life gusting up.

Shifting to beta form, he pressed his mouth to Stiles' ear. "Hello, Stiles."

Stiles met his gaze, head twisting in the rotting underbrush. 

"Ugh," he said, voice full of grudging relief. "It's you." 

For a moment Peter pressed down, reveling in the squirming and cussing it induced. But he wasn't his nephew. His weapons were not limited to claws or strength alone.

Levering off, Peter grinned, watching as Stiles twisted and sat up.  Now closer than he had been while watching from outside the cocoon of his boy’s mind, Peter could see the obvious youth that wrapped around Stiles. Fuller cheeks, gangly arms, a petulant gaze — markedly younger than in the first dream. Peter’s smile grew.

"Back the fuck off," snapped Stiles, taking his own advice as he leaned away, hands out behind him. The brown detritus of the forest crunched under his movements.

"It's traditional for a hero to be rewarded for saving a life," Peter said, leaning forward on his haunches. 

"I wasn't aware that tackling a teenager into the ground and then creeping on him came under the heading of 'hero'," Stiles replied, line of muscle at his neck jerking with nerves.

"You should update your dictionary." Peter smiled. Then, "I've had time to think, being away as long as I have, so I'm glad we have this chance. I'll admit that you didn't meet me at my best, and for that I'm sorry. Back then I was...slightly unstable."

"And you're just a paragon of stability now," Stiles mocked, shaky but defiant. Peter let it pass. Who was Stiles without some fire? To stoke it, Peter wrapped a light hand over his ankle. Stiles' eyes widened and his bare toes flexed, but he didn't try to pull away.

"I've figured out just what you were lying about, that night I asked you if you wanted the bite." 

"I wasn't lying." 

"As I'm sure you've learned with dear old dad, there are many shades of truth. Perhaps you didn't want to be turned, but that's not all the bite is." Slowly, Peter slipped his hand under Stiles' jeans at his ankle, thumb on the thin skin at the joint of Stiles' foot. 

"Let me make it simple for you: I don't want your teeth in me," Stiles said, glaring but preternaturally still — like prey scared any movement would alert a predator to its existence. It was much too late for that, though.

“You’ve gotten careful with your words, Stiles, haven’t you? I know how hard it is to figure out how to lie when your partner can hear your very heartbeat. It takes years for even born wolves to learn to dissemble, yet you’ve mastered it so quickly. Don’t think I don’t appreciate that — but I won’t be put off by your simple distractions. So, you don’t want my teeth in you. Now tell me you don’t want my teeth _on_ you, and I’ll move on. Leave you here in the woods, alone.”

The sharp exhale Stiles gave was answer enough, his eyes wide. “I’m not playing your games,” he argued.

“Oh, Stiles.” Peter flicked a claw out and started running it up and down Stiles' other leg, hip to knee, each line a shade closer to the private skin of his inner thigh. “What ever made you think I was playing a game?”

“Scott — Derek — they’re here, in the woods. If I yell, they’ll hear me.” The fact that Stiles’ heart _thu—thunked_ with the sound of a lie was almost sad. He didn’t even believe what he was saying — and he shouldn’t have. For Peter had scented neither Scott nor Derek in the air of the dream, though he’d tried.

"I don’t think they will, Stiles. No one is here for you, even though you protect everyone. Must get tiring."

"Not as tiring as conversations with you," bit out Stiles. Then, like he couldn't let it go, he added, "Scott — Derek. They protect me, too."

Exaggeratedly, Peter looked around. Trees and dirt and gloom surrounded them. Even the crows and cicadas had quieted now that there were no giants destroying their homes. It was an empty place.

"Interesting idea of protecting," noted Peter, his finger finally sweeping up the full front of Stiles' pants. The boy was hard, and he whined under Peter's touch. "Which leads us to what you wanted that night but were afraid to ask for."

"I don't want anything from you," Stiles repeated. _Thu-thunk._

"Who do you tell yourself you want instead? My nephew?" Stiles' gaze flicked to the trees, as if Peter could summon Derek at will. "Derek can hardly keep himself together, the poor boy. He definitely couldn't help you."

"I don't need help. I'm perfection itself — " Stiles' voice caught as Peter cupped his dick, clawed nails gentle, rasping over the denim. 

The blow came quickly, impressive for a human but no match for a werewolf. Peter caught Stiles’ fist without even thinking about it.

"Physical violence is beneath you, Stiles." Peter ground the bones of Stiles' wrist together, and the leaves on the forest floor crunched and crackled in protest when Peter came over Stiles, catching his other hand and pinning him there. A new note of fear began to waft up from the boy’s skin, a scent in the air that Peter hadn’t even realized was missing until he’d at last filled his nostrils with it. There was something strange about it, a shallowness that made it seem more like a perfume that lay on Stiles’ skin than a feeling that welled up from inside of him, and Peter frowned. It would take time to get used to the fluid quality of dreams. “You didn’t want to be taken into my pack that night by the bite, but that’s not the only way I can take you.”

“What’re you doing?” Abruptly Stiles stopped his struggles. 

“Giving you what we both want,” replied Peter, one hand arresting Stiles’ wrists while one unzipped the boy’s jeans. He cupped Stiles’ cock in a hand, slipping a claw through his boxers and cutting them away. 

Stiles let out a high, crazed laugh. “Did you just — oh my god, you did, you just tore my boxers off of me — ” His voice cut off with a huff once Peter wrapped a hand around his length, weighing and squeezing it gently. “Oh god, don’t, please — ”

Peter stopped his movements and bent even closer, pressing his face into Stiles, nose to nose. He rubbed a thumb over the sensitive, soft head of Stiles’ cock. It was overflowing, precome spilling and filling the air with the smell of salt and lust.  “Don’t what?” 

The internal debate that raged on Stiles’ face would’ve been more entertaining in less pressing circumstances, but Peter waited regardless. At last Stiles shut his eyes. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” reassured Peter, making sure to give it to Stiles a bit rough, like the boy wanted but was afraid to ask for. 

It only took a few minutes before Stiles was coming straight into Peter’s palm, as perfectly as if he’d been trained for it. Peter sighed down at the viscous liquid in his hand, palming it with a smile. Cradling it carefully, he clawed open the rest of Stiles’ outfit until he could reach behind Stiles’ balls easily. Rubbing the come around Stiles’ hole, he exalted in being so close to finally starting his plan — he looked down at Stiles, expecting a sex-stupid stare. 

Stiles’ face was a rigid mask. “So I was wondering.” 

Hiding his confusion, Peter said, “Go on.”

“Why this dream?”

Peter tried to contain his shock at the question. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Stiles said. “It’s beneath you, Peter.”

“Why this dream?” Peter echoed, buying himself time. “Because who could want a doll on a bed when they could have you, running and scared for your life?”

“But I’m not scared anymore,” Stiles said, as if confused. Peter suppressed a flinch when the flesh at his finger starting moving more than it should, Stiles’ body literally morphing. Mouth half-open, Peter watched the baby fat melt from Stiles, watched scars — clawmarks — run up his sides, like flashes of white lightening on the sky of his skin. Peter was left staring down at the same Stiles he’d recently glimpsed at the grocery store, eyes cold.

This time, Stiles’ fist connected. Flung off of Stiles’ body, Peter landed on his back, pain that wasn’t healing blooming at his cheek. He grunted when Stiles landed on top and spun him around so that he was hands-and-knees on the ground, leaves in his face. Peter tried to fight, knowing that a boy — even a man — shouldn’t be any match for him. With a snarl, he batted behind himself, clawing at the human behind him. In seconds his arm was caught and pinned above his head.

“My mind, my rules,” Stiles said, his heartbeat as steady as his words.

Peter breathed in the scent of dying heather and growing juniper seeds. “Let me up and we can talk.”

“Oh, I can talk just fine from here.” Stiles laughed, unamused. “You’re such a cliche, Peter, choosing to hunt me down. You know, if you’d chosen the first one I’d have let you have me. I’d have let you take whatever you wanted and we could have traded barbs like we used to. It would’ve felt so good.  But what, you wanted this —  to chase me? Ruin me? Make me feel helpless here again?”

 _Again?_ It took all of Peter’s willpower to allow himself to go slack in Stiles’ hold. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“You have _no idea_ ,” Stiles said, grip tightening. “I’ve earned my heartbeat. You just had the bad luck to dreamwalk into me on the wrong fucking night.”

“This dream isn’t simply based on a memory. It _is_ a memory, isn’t it?” wondered Peter. “I’ve been away so long and haven’t had time to catch up with the trials and tribulations of Beacon Hills. Not interested, in all honesty, or at least I thought I wasn’t. What happened to you, Stiles? Did the alpha pack find you like I did? Did they tackle you to the ground and tear your shorts from — ” A hand around his throat stoppered up Peter’s words like a cork in a wine bottle.

“They found me,” confirmed Stiles, lips pressed to Peter’s ear. “Bet you’d love to hear what they did to me out here in the woods — how they laughed when I screamed for Scott, taunted me when I did the same for Derek.” Peter gurgled, his throat collapsing.  Stiles loosened his hold minutely. “So sorry. Having trouble there?”

“I —” Peter coughed, hacking. The rage towered unexpected in his psyche. “I would have killed them for touching you. It should’ve been me.”

“You’re too late,” said Stiles, almost blithe save for the telling waver in his voice. “Too late for everything. I killed them all because the power would’ve driven Scott and Derek — so I did it, I killed them, Derek held their chests open and I — “ 

“Oh, Stiles,” crooned Peter, starting to twist away. “Protecting everyone except yourself. Let me up. Let me up and I’ll erase every touch they ever placed on you.”

“No. You took too long.” Stiles slammed Peter onto the ground where he’d been trying to make a move and a loud crack filled the clearing, Peter’s nose smashing on a hidden slab of rock. “So this is me, shooting first.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw the flash of Stiles’ arm raising in the air, something dark clasped in his hand. A sharp pain flared at the back of Peter’s head, blood gushing down his neck, and his mind flashed white, purple —

##

 

 

 

 

A wet spray of blood dripped down Stiles’ lashes to his cheeks and Stiles shook it off. The drops gleamed on the grass of the clearing, spattering like a pneumonia victim’s cough.

Stiles dropped the black stone and wiped at his lips with the back of his hands, over and over. Still when he opened his mouth a trickle rolled from the tip of his nose onto his tongue, scalding.

The forest stood a silent watchwoman as Stiles scrambled off the corpse in front of him and retched. The tears and bile burned in the dream same as they did in real life, and Stiles collapsed, his back to an ash tree.

He buried his bloody face in his bloody hands and tried not to shake.

   

**Author's Note:**

> say hi at [nightrevelations](http://www.nightrevelations.tumblr.com).


End file.
